


Life Goes On

by Anonymous



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Bad Parent John Winchester, Blind Dean Winchester, Gen, Guilty Sam Winchester, Hopeful Ending, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt No Comfort, John Winchester Being an Asshole, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Reunion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-03
Updated: 2019-03-03
Packaged: 2019-11-08 15:31:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17983778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Sam’s on a break from college when he sees someone who looks just like his brother, out of the blue.Except itcan’tbe Dean.Because this man is blind.Only, it is him, and Sam has a lot to find out about what’s happened in the two years since he saw Dean last.





	Life Goes On

**Author's Note:**

> There is a lot of angst, and little to no comfort in this story, so please be aware of that before you read on, and if abandonment, blindness or extreme guilt will make you uncomfortable then this should be as far as you go.

“Dude. Hey. _Sam_. You okay?”

No. No, he isn’t okay. But he finds himself nodding, mumbling an apology without really knowing what he says, and through it all his eyes never leave the figure some thirty feet away, holding open a bag so the stall attendant can put some fruit and vegetables inside.

He smiles, the woman says something, and then he laughs.

God, it is him, because even if everything else was different, nobody has that laugh, the one that always sounds like it fought its way through and is still expecting something to rear up and quash it.

It’s Dean.

And there’s a part of Sam that wants to be wrong, because, no matter how badly he’s missed his brother, if that is Dean…

Then Sam deserves to go to fucking Hell for leaving.

He stands there, watches Dean walk slowly away, the white cane tap-tap-tapping in arcs along the sidewalk.

++

Bobby seems surprised to hear from him, and a little guarded.

Sam hates how that hurts, but he chose to walk away. No, not walk. He ran, and he left everything, everyone, behind, and now he feels like he fled a disaster and he got out but he didn’t bother to make sure Dean did, too.

He lets Bobby ramble, a little, and then he can’t wait any longer.

Dean is a fair distance ahead of him, his bag a little heavier, now, but still keeping that steady, careful pace as he moves to the end of the market.

Sam has to know, so he blurts it out, his voice sharp and hurt, and he hears Bobby sigh.

“So that’s where he ended up, huh? He checks in, but he never tells me where from. Just that he’s okay, and to make sure I am. Still, if that’s what he needs.”

Needs? Sam watches Dean almost stumble as a kid darts past, knocks his stick and him, but he recovers fast. 

Dean needs….

Sam can’t finish that thought. 

“How? Bobby, how did it happen?”

And if he comes out with ‘maybe you should ask Dean’, Sam will scream. Right there, in front of everybody.

There’s a silence, brief, threatening, and Sam feels like he should find some place private to sit down and get ready; he’s too used to Bobby, knows when something rough is coming.

“On a hunt,” Bobby says. “You two, you know if anything happened, it was always going to be on a hunt.”

Sam isn’t surprised; he would have been had Bobby said Dean fell drunk down the stairs, or got clipped by a car crossing the road, or just got sick.

But there’s so much more, he knows it, can hear Bobby tucking parts of this particular story away out of sight as if he thinks Sam won’t dig them out.

But there’s something that Sam wants to know first.

“Where’s my dad? Why isn’t he here?”

He can feel Bobby’s fury through the phone even before the older man says another word.

“I don’t know where _he_ is, Sam. Haven’t spoken to him in two years.”

Two years. Sam has a feeling that is also the amount of time Dean’s been living in darkness, and something in him shatters.

“Bobby,” he says. “Please.”

He knows what Bobby’s thinking, that it will do him no good to know these things, but Sam has to. Somehow, he’s involved in all of this; he wasn’t here, he didn’t have Dean’s back, he’s culpable.

He needs to know all of it.

And Bobby, forcing out every word, tells him.

++

Sam ignores texts and voicemails from his friends, asking where his is, telling him they’re at this cute little beachfront restaurant, they might go surfing later, he better not be wasting this mini break in his room studying.

He ignores them all, and does a good job of staying unnoticed by anybody passing Dean’s house.

It’s more of a one storey shack, in all honesty, Solid, but worn. Sam’s done a couple of walk arounds, and he can see the things everybody else probably has but not actually noticed.

Devils traps and protective sigils, some in the form of dream catchers, or hand made metal craftwork hanging here, nailed there; there’s a mural painted around the back door that has tiny script barely visible against the background, warding the premises from unwelcome eyes.

It’s basically a giant panic room, and that’s before Sam even gets to the human alarm systems Dean’s had installed.

Nobody, human or other, is getting into that house without him knowing it.

But Sam knows his brother, and is able to retreat from his recce without setting anything off.

He can imagine Dean in there now, taking calls from other hunters, covering for them when a sheriff from some small town calls to make sure Special Agent Watson definitely has the right to be nosing around their turf.

He can also imagine Dean popping painkillers when it gets too much, waking up cold and alone after a nightmare only to find the room stays dark when he fumbles for the lights.

He can imagine him alone.

Fuck. He may have had to go, but why the fuck didn’t he take Dean too?

++

Dean stays indoors for nearly three hours, until the afternoon light turns hazy and starts a subtle shift into dusk.

Only then does Dean come out, dressed a little warmer than earlier, a dark green sweater over black jeans, and starts his way down the street.

Sam follows, sees Dean making steadily for a bar in town. They seem to know him, there; someone escorts him to a table in the back corner, making sure to push chairs and anything away that might not be in the same place as the last time Dean was there.

He nods his thanks, feels his way into a seat so his back is to the wall, and beckons the waiter to come closer. Whispers something.

Sam takes a seat on the other side of the room, and sits down. Finds that he can’t keep his eyes off Dean, no matter what Bobby counselled. 

He realises, in some way, he’s punishing himself here. Because this is done, and over with. Dean’s pulled through being abandoned, being hurt, being abandoned again, and is living the life he built from what he had left.

Which was pretty much _himself_ , and Sam wipes hastily at his eyes, this isn’t it, he isn’t going to sit there sobbing out of his guilt.

“You okay?”

He looks up to see a woman standing there, open concern on her face.

“Yeah,” he croaks, clears his throat. “Yeah, yeah, I’m okay.”

He notices then that she’s got a tray with a beer and a neat whiskey on it, and she sets them down.

“Uh, that’s not for me.”

She half turns, and points to that corner, and Dean is staring (no, Sam, he’s not staring, because he can’t fucking _see_ ) towards him, face grim.

“He says you’re shit at stalking, and to get your ass over there and say hi to your brother properly.”

Fuck. 

The woman goes, and Sam doesn’t move. A tiny, cowardly part of him wants to run, again, but the rest of him won’t have it; him running is what….

He grabs the drinks, and makes his way over to the table.

Dean’s foot moves right, until he finds a chair, and pushes it at Sam.

“Hey, little brother.”

Sam puts his drinks down, and takes the seat.

“Dean.” It’s a fight to keep his voice level, to act like he moved out (didn’t run, didn’t desert the person he has to thank for being alive) and he’s come back for a birthday or thanksgiving or what the fuck ever. “So.”

And that’s it. He has no idea what to say next, because what can he?

“Get it over with,” Dean says, and Sam refuses to cry again, because even if Dean can’t see it, he’ll hear it in his voice.

And if there’s one thing (okay, there’s many things) that Dean’s hated, it’s being pitied or babied.

That probably hasn’t changed.

It leaves him with nothing else to say, and Dean huffs, and then feels along the table until he finds his own glass, empties it in one swallow.

“Drink,” he says. “Then we’ll go home.”

++

The inside of the house surprises Sam.

It has a certain Bobby-like feel to it. There’s a whole bookcase against one wall, shelves bowed under the weight of the contents, and Sam wanders towards it.

“It’s not Braille,” Dean says. “Not a lot of books on demon hunting for blind people. Got a guy who comes by every Friday and spends a couple of hours typing the contents into this.”

His brothers taps a computer, on a desk tucked neat into a corner. “You can search by voice and it reads the entry back to you. He thinks I’m some kind of writer. Or teaching defences against the dark arts. Or something.”

Sam turns back to Dean, and watches him moving around, with a certainty that was lacking outside.

Of course, he does; this is his home, he knows the layout of it, and Sam sees glimpses of his brother in every inch of the place.

Glimpses he hasn’t seen before.

Like…. There’s a kitchen. Of course, there’s a kitchen, but it’s clearly been used. The hint of garlic lingers there, and some pots and plates are steeping in the sink, and there’s…

There’s an actual spice rack on the wall. With spices, and a plant pot on the window sill with what Sam suspects might be coriander growing in it.

But if that catches him off guard, it’s the paintings.

They’re hanging on the wall of the main open space, and there’s something about them that draws him closer to see, in the bottom corner on each, Dean’s initials, and a date.

All of them done since he lost his sight.

He realises then that Dean’s fallen silent and turns to find his brother waiting, as if knowing (of course he knows) that Sam’s been exploring, acquainting himself with this side of Dean he’s never really seen.

“You, uh….”. Sam shrugs. “You really settled in here, huh.”

Dean’s left his cane in a stand by the front door, and confidently crosses the space into the main area, before sitting down on the sofa.

“Had to settle somewhere, Sam. You still at college?”

Sam nods, catches him, hates himself. “Yeah. Weekend break, thought we’d come down here to relax.”

“We’d? You doing some settling down, Sam?”

“God, no,” Sam says. Like there’s time for that (and the thought that he might have, if that girl he’s seen, Jess, might be interested in more than her grades, while Dean’s here, alone and blind). “Just me and some of the guys.”

He should probably let them know he’s not been mugged or drowned or something, but right now he cares about one person only.

Dean doesn’t comment, and Sam wishes he would, tease him, mock him, even, but maybe that’s not who they are anymore.

“You hungry?”

He looks up to find Dean standing, and his stomach rumbles then, too loud for him to deny it.

He stands, too, instinct, fucking instinct, and starts for the kitchen. “I can…”

He gets to just level with Dean, and his brother’s hand shoots out and catches his shoulder, and squeezes.

Grip still like iron.

“Sit down,” he says, and Sam does, thinking bitterly that at least Dean can’t see how ashamed he looks right then.

He watches Dean cook, moving around that kitchen like he can see, preparing them a meal that looks amazing, tastes incredible, but goes down, for Sam anyway, like it’s made of crushed rock and glass.

++

Dean suggests he stay, if Sam wants. It’s near midnight, and Sam knows Dean can hear the exhaustion in his voice.

It’s more than physical, but it’s spread into his body so that he feels like he’s dragging himself towards the small guest bedroom next to Dean’s.

Sleep, though he badly needs it, refuses to come easy. He tries, tossing, turning, then stops, mindful that Dean will probably hear him, and determined that one of them will get a good rest tonight.

But he can’t stop thinking of that day he left, and what he said, to dad (he doesn’t care about that, he might have said more if he’d known what was coming next) and, God forgive him, to Dean.

Dean who was only trying to look out for him, like he’d spend his life already doing. 

And worse than that was him never calling his brother. Never sending him a text, or asking through Bobby if Dean was okay.

He knows now why Dean never tried to get word to him of what happened, even through Bobby. Why would he, when Sam had made it so clear he didn’t care? 

He had his new life, and somehow it’d been one that Dean ended up with no place in, and Sam isn’t sure how that happened.

It was never his intention.

Tired or not, his instincts are still sharp. So, when he hears Dean cry out, he’s on his feet and along that hall, and through the door, and ready to kill anything that’s made his brother sound so hurt and afraid and broken.

But that won’t be possible, because he doesn’t even know where John is.

And he can’t exactly whup himself.

Dean’s tangled in his bedsheets, sobbing in his sleep, hands covering his face. Sam thinks maybe he’s woke himself up, but he realises then that Dean’s still asleep.

Moaning, begging. Saying things Sam knows Dean would never while he was conscious.

He stands there, frozen, listening to Dean beg John to help him, not to go, and then to call out for his little brother to come back for him.

He listens until he can’t, and then he very slowly approaches the bed, because Dean is still Dean, blinded or not.

Sam gently guides Dean’s hands from his face, rubs lightly at his wrists, his jaw, until his brother starts to relax.

“It’s okay,” he whispers. “Dean, it’s okay, I’m here.”

Except it isn’t okay, but it’s a white lie that guides Dean back to sleep, less troubled than before.

Sam backs carefully away, hating himself more than ever, and returns to his room.

He can’t sleep now, not knowing what he does.

Especially not with the horrific scarring around Dean’s eyes refusing to leave his mind.

++

If Dean knows he had a nightmare, he doesn’t acknowledge it the next morning.

Sam awakes to a breakfast of blueberry pancakes and coffee. Dean must already have eaten because he’s back at the sink, dumping dishes into hot water, and turning when he hears Sam come out.

“You still run?”

Sam doubts he can walk a mile never mind anything else, not after last night, and slumps gratefully down at the table.

“Uh, yeah, but...not on break.”

Dean nods, and comes over to the table.

“So,” he asks. “What now?”

What now, indeed. What Sam should do is tell his friends he’s dropping out. Go back without him. He’s going to stay, and take care of his brother.

Try to make up for what happened. For not being there on that hunt, for not stopping Dean from being blinded, and for not being there so that when John decided a blinded son was no good as a hunter and too much of a burden to care for, Dean wasn’t left alone and scared and with practically nothing.

Except himself.

Sam looks around him, and realises Dean doesn’t need taken care of. He’s coping. He’s _living_ and yes, it’s alone, but maybe, like Sam did himself, Dean’s made a conscious choice here.

He could have gone to stay with Bobby, the old man would have taken him in without a moment’s hesitation. But instead he did this, and Sam is suddenly sure he’s never loved his brother or been prouder of him than he is just then.

“I guess back to college,” he says. “But we get a week off in two months. Maybe...Maybe I could come down here again?”

Dean half shrugs, but Sam isn’t fooled. “If you like. Maybe some sea air’ll do you good. Get you out of those books.”

And that’s how it’s going to be, it seems. Neither of them are going to acknowledge any of it.

Sam has little better appetite for the pancakes than he did for dinner, but he finishes the plate and gets up.

Dean does too, and walks him to the door. Sam puts his number in Dean’s phone, and takes his, and then that’s it, he has no more reason to linger.

But he can’t just walk away. He may not have done this, but if he’d been there then maybe it might not have happened at all.

He isn’t spotless, in this.

He catches Dean off guard when he hugs him, pulling Dean into his arms and holding him so tight he knows he’s probably squashing him, but he can’t help it.

“I’ll see you in two months,” he says, and then he breaks away and goes because if he doesn’t, he won’t leave at all, even though he knows Dean’s okay.

He has this.


End file.
